Newton's Third Law
by reciprocityfic
Summary: Post 8x08. Michonne and Rick attempt to process what's happening around them.
1. the second go-round

**Author's Note:** So I've had bits and pieces of this floating around in my mind since the mid-season finale, and I finally decided to sit down and write them out, and put them together into some sort of semi-cohesive story.

So this fic obviously isn't fun, given the subject matter and the events of 8x08. But I hope you'll give it a read anyways. Drop me a comment/PM me if you want, and I'll be sad with you! There will be another part or two of this, and those ones might even show our lovelies a glimmer of hope and light! *wink wink*

Love and thanks to you all.

 _(Warning: This fic contains the mention/discussion of child & infant death.)_

* * *

 **chapter one: the second go-round**

She doesn't really remember what she felt like when she found Andre's body.

She knows how it felt to _lose him_ , of course. She knows how it felt to live without him. And she still knows each of those feelings, intimately. She carries them with her every day.

But that first rush of emotion, everything that came over her when she first came upon the destroyed and overrun camp, all the things that consumed her when she found Mike and Terry and, finally, her son - they aren't so clear anymore.

She can't quite remember.

She _did_. She _used to_. It's _all_ she used to remember, all she used to feel, with every day, every night, every moment, every blink, and every breath.

She'd tortured herself with it. She'd _killed_ herself with it. She might've risen every morning, moved through the world around her, eaten, cut down walkers, inhaled and exhaled as air passed through her lungs, but she'd been dead.

Dead in spirit. Dead in hope. Dead in heart.

Dead in every way that mattered.

And the weight of Andre - _her baby boy_ \- limp and unresponsive in her arms, was the only thing she let herself feel. For _years_.

And she died. She'd killed herself - her _soul_. Still having to walk on this earth was the hell to which she was condemned. The hell she thought she deserved.

But then.

 _But then_.

Then, there was Andrea. There was the prison - there was the prospect of _belonging_ to something again. The possibility of having people who cared for her. Having people she cared _about_.

Then, there was _Carl_ , and there was _Rick_ , and there was _Judith_.

They brought her back, from nothing. They shined a light into the darkness she'd been tumbling around in by herself for so, so long. They breathed life back into her heart, opened it up again and settled into the places they'd slowly but surely carved out for themselves.

She was a mother. She was in love - _so in love_. In love more strongly and more deeply than she'd ever been before.

She didn't forget _Andre_. She never would, and she'd never want to. Forgetting him was her biggest fear, even though she knew forgetting him was impossible. So she _clung_ to him, with all her might. With all her strength.

Not a day passed when she did not think of her baby boy. But, her memories were different than they used to be.

She didn't hear him in the moan of walkers anymore. Instead, she heard him in the lilt of Judith's laughter. In the eagerness of Rick and Carl's voices as they urged the little girl to call her _Momma_.

She felt him in Carl's arms every time they wrapped around her in a hug, rather than in the weight of her sword in her hand. Felt him in the heaviness of a sleeping Judith in her arms as she carried her up the stairs and tucked her into bed after a long day.

Instead of seeing him every time she passed their cemetery, looked at the crosses pounded into the Earth and read the names painted on the steel of their walls, she saw him in the growing swell of Maggie's stomach every time they met with The Hilltop. She saw him in the shine of Rick's eyes every time he took a moment to stop and gaze at his children, in the gentle smile that would turn up his lips and the warmth that radiated off of him as he'd catch her eye afterwards, the small grin on his face breaking into something blindingly bright and beautiful, that took her breath away and filled her heart so full of love for that man and his children that it overflowed and poured into every atom of her body and soul.

She stopped killing herself with horror and death and fear and self-loathing, and she let herself remember the good, instead of the bad.

And memories of Andre's laughs and smiles, reminiscing on the sound of his voice and his endless energy and boundless creativity and silly sense of humor - they muddled the memory of his death. They didn't erase it; nothing would ever do that. But they made it less potent, somehow. They blurred it. Dulled it. They took some of the sharpness and sting out of the moment she had used to torture herself into oblivion.

She doesn't really remember what she felt like when she found Andre's body - not exactly.

But when Carl lifts up his shirt, pulls up his bandage, shows her and his father the blood on his pale skin, the teeth marks imprinted into his abdomen, the _bite_ on the side of his stomach, where there's no chance of amputation, of a solution, of hope, of miracles, of _life_ …

It hits her. Like an eighteen-wheeler.

Like a bullet.

Like a punch to the stomach.

Like a brick to the side of the head.

It takes her breath, closes her throat. It knocks her off her feet, pushes her to her knees.

It hits her, with a vengeance. With every speck of searing ache and blistering agony and choking grief that had been eased by healing and happiness, _it hits her_.

And as bile stirs in her stomach and fire scorches her veins, she is at a loss as to how she _ever_ forgot it.

* * *

She doesn't know what to do.

She wants to hold Carl. She wants to hold Rick. She wants to comfort them, to take away their pain. To take it on for them - all of it - swallow it and heap it on top of her own, let it drown her, suffocate her, let it seep into her skin and bones just so they won't have to feel it.

But she can't. Her heart has dropped to her feet. Her limbs are full of lead. Her mind is fuzzy and broken, her throat is dry and her tongue is tied. She can't move, can't think, can't speak.

She wants to take Carl's bite. She wants to save his life. She wants to die for him.

But she can't. She _can't_ , and she's never felt more useless and helpless and futile.

She doesn't know what to do.

She can't help but think of the little boy she saw when she first came upon the chain-link fence of the prison, that one with bangs that didn't hang into his eyes. The boy with a face dusted by one thousand freckles and a sheriff's hat on his head that was two sizes too big for him.

The boy who risked his life to show his baby sister a picture of her mother.

" _It's the only one left!"_

She can still see his face in that photo so vividly. A face so soft and innocent, so happy. A face not hardened by the horrid world around him.

What she wouldn't do to give that back to him, that joy and peace.

And still, her brain keeps rewinding, past those first moments, starts conjuring up visions of things she wasn't even there for. Scenes of birthdays and loose teeth and the first day of school. Family vacations and trips to Grandma's and Christmases and little league games and learning to count and say the alphabet and starting to talk and starting to walk and crawling around on the floor, back and forth between his mother and father when he was still a baby.

 _Rick_ holding his little baby boy.

She can picture it so clearly in her mind, picture Rick cradling his hours-old son, the tiny infant fitting snugly and perfectly in the crook of his arm. His hands and posture betray his nervousness and unease, the same fearful uncertainty felt by every first-time father, but she sees and hears the way he coos down at the baby - still pink and wrinkly with his miniature fists clenched by his chubby cheeks - sees the gentle, uncontrollable smile playing on his lips, and knows he's never fallen in love with anything so quickly.

 _Her Rick_ , holding his little baby boy.

The image seizes her heart, and for a moment, it's in a _good_ way. For a moment, she's filled with the warmth and delight that comes with seeing the love of her life so enamored and in love with the person that's unquestionably become her son. The peace that comes with seeing someone you love care for someone else you love, just as much as you do.

But then she remembers that it's all in her head, that it's not real. She remembers that now that same little boy is dying in front of them, that Rick is losing his baby boy, that she's already lost hers, and _she doesn't know what to do_.

There's nothing she _can_ do.

Her mother had always teased her about being a control freak, used to talk about how she'd put herself in charge the day she came home from the hospital and never relinquished the position, so she could always be on top of things, always be three steps ahead of whatever life threw at her. So she could plan and plot and make contingency plans and alternate routes in case anything changed or went wrong.

But there is no contingency plan - not for a bite on the stomach - and she curses the world for doing this to her _again_ , for tricking her into thinking she could find happiness and manage to keep it this go-round, before violently ripping it away from her for a second time. First with Abraham, and then with Glenn and Sasha, and now with the burning of her home and the death of her second son.

 _"It worked out for you!"_

That's what Sasha told her once, and she was right. It _had_ worked out for her, even though she hadn't seen it at the time. Not all of it. But she _did_ see it, eventually. She saw _all of it_ , and she took it. She took every last bit, and maybe that was the problem. Maybe she'd been selfish and greedy, and maybe she'd taken too much, and now this was her punishment. Maybe her happiness - the love she found with Rick, the family they built with Carl and Judith - had thrown this cruel world out of balance, and this was it righting itself.

Maybe she'd expected too much. And maybe she'd been foolish to do so, given her history. She thinks of Negan, and she thinks of Andre and Mike and Terry and Glenn and Sasha and Andrea and Hershel and Beth and Tyreese and Noah and Abraham and…

Or maybe it was the opposite.

Maybe she hadn't expected _enough_. Maybe she let her guard down, and forgot. Forgot the risk that comes with being happy. The danger that comes with loving and being in love.

Now, she remembers. She remembers the danger, she remembers Andre, she remembers Newton's Third Law of Motion - For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

And for every great love, there is equal and opposite potential for great sorrow.

* * *

 **A/N:** So like I said, there will be another part or two to this. And there will be much more dialogue and appearances by other characters (like Rick!) in subsequent chapters. I know this one was just a ton of exposition/kind of just a character study and self-reflection of and by Michonne, but I hope you still enjoyed it, and I promise there is more plot, more character interaction, and much more Richonne coming. Just stick with me if you can!

Once again, love and thanks to each and every one of you! *blows kisses*

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	2. needs and wants

**Author's Note:** Hi again! Sorry it's been so long.

This chapter turned out a lot differently than I originally expected it to. There's still not much action (sorry :/) but there is a lot of _interaction_ and dialogue, especially between Rick and Michonne. So, yay! I'm trying to incorporate some of the elements of the sneak peeks we've been getting for 8x09, but I'm only using what fits with the story I want to tell, and disregarding everything that doesn't. So I wouldn't say there were really any spoilers for the next episode.

And just a disclaimer, I wrote the second half of this chapter while on pain meds, and was also on pain meds while proofreading. I think everything is okay and makes sense, but sorry if something doesn't.

Love you all, and thanks for reading!

* * *

 **chapter two: needs and wants**

She goes over to where the rest of them are gathered together, murmuring to each other, almost automatically. Her feet move with their own volition. Her thoughts are shooting between synapses in her brain far too fast for her to be able to discern, but she knows that one of them - her or Rick - is _always_ there. Somewhere along the way, after Terminus, just Rick had slowly become Rick _and_ Michonne, even before they were together in any way other than friendship and family. When they first got to Alexandria, and Rick went a bit off the rails, the group turned to _her_ when they were hesitant to go to him, when they wanted to get something through to him but weren't sure they had the right words.

On the road after the fall of the prison, when it was just him, her, and Carl - she'd learned to speak Rick. She'd come to _know_ Rick. She got him, and through everything - even through the whole _Jessie_ fiasco - she understood him better than anyone else. And when he wasn't himself, or made a decision that didn't sit right with her, she wasn't afraid to stand up to him and do things on her own.

And now, they were _Rick and Michonne_ \- unequivocally, inextricably, and forevermore. They were an if/then statement, an action and inevitable reaction. One didn't exist without the other.

She remembers her life before, and how she'd thought of codependence as a dirty word. She _loved_ Mike, of course, but she hadn't needed him. She hadn't needed anyone; she was complete within herself. She was her own person, with her own heart and mind and soul and spirit. She didn't have to sacrifice that to care for someone. Love didn't require a loss or change of her identity.

She learned a few things after the world ended, and after she came upon the group at the prison. After she found Rick and fell in love with him.

She realized that she hadn't really understood what that meant - needing someone. It didn't work the way she thought it did. Needing someone didn't mean sacrificing something inside you, or changing who you were. Someone who loved you - who was _worth_ your needing - would never ask you to change. They wouldn't want you to.

Needing someone didn't bring change; it brought an evolution, a growth into something new. Loving someone and receiving love - being truly and wholly _in love_ with another person - took who you were and cultivated it, offered it something it never used to have and watched it flourish. You wouldn't be the same, but it wouldn't take anything from you.

Needing someone didn't make you lose anything. Instead, it _gave_ you something more. You were able to create something unique and beautiful. And to want that opportunity, to feel that pull towards another person and want to share something with them, was nothing but human.

The concept doesn't scare Michonne anymore. Now, she admits it freely, without shame or trepidation. She _needs_ Rick, and she isn't scared of it. She _revels_ in it.

And she knows Rick needs her, too. That he's _always_ needed her, perhaps even before she needed him.

She'd been able to tell that he was seeing things when they first met, so she decided to confront him about it, gently. To offer something that maybe they could build on. There'd been soft glint in his eyes when he paused and turned in her direction after she told him how she talked to Mike, a mix of surprise and gratitude that she hadn't necessarily been looking for, or even suspecting. But there it was, all the same. And it had cemented something between them; not quite a friendship, or a trust, but something more like an understanding.

She noticed that he'd walked around with his shoulders slightly slumped after that talk. It wasn't in a bad way, though. It was as if his body had relaxed in the tiniest bit of relief.

He'd needed that talk. He needed _her_ , and he'd told her as much, one night in the firelight after they set up camp among the trees along the train tracks to Terminus, Carl sleeping a few yards away from them.

 _("Remember when you accused me of seeing things? That day we found Morgan?"_

 _He doesn't sound mad, but her eyes dart to his face before answering to make sure, and when she takes in his faint, teasing smile, she lets out the light laugh she'd been holding back. She glances up at Carl to make sure he's still asleep before angling her body towards Rick._

" _Figured someone had to," she whispers. "Keep you honest."_

 _He chuckles, and folds his arms in front of him as he gazes out into the distant darkness of the forest._

" _Yeah, you've always been good at that. Keeping me honest."_

 _She hums, and looks up at Carl once more, the compulsive need to keep an eye on him instinctual and overwhelming, especially since their reunion._

" _You were right, you know," he admits lowly. "I was seein' things."_

 _She draws her gaze back to him, but stays quiet, watching him as he shifts his position, stretching his legs towards the fire and dropping his head to his chest. After a few minutes of silence, he sighs._

" _What? You're not gonna say anything?" he asks, sounding like he's almost frustrated at her lack of invasiveness. "Not who I was seeing, or why I was, or for how long?"_

 _The toe of his boot kicks at the sticks and rocks around the campfire, making it flare and crackle a little stronger before settling again._

" _I told you I talked to my dead boyfriend," she says, as she watches the orange and yellow flames dance back and forth in front of her, "and you didn't ask me anything else. You didn't ask me what had happened, or why he was dead. You took what I gave you, and didn't pry for anything else. And I appreciated that. I was grateful. I still am."_

 _She turns to him again. His head is still bent towards the ground._

" _This isn't about what I want," she explains. "This is about what you need."_

 _When he doesn't answer her, she goes back to watching the fire, continuing to peek up at Carl every few moments and trying to ignore the rumbling in her stomach from days with not enough to eat. As time passes, and neither of them move to break the stillness between them, she decides she'll try to get some rest, as Rick's volunteered to take first watch. She's just about to stand up when she hears his voice._

" _It was Lori," he murmurs. "I was seein' Lori."_

 _He folds his hands together and starts to fiddle and pull at the wedding band he still wears around his finger. When he finally lifts his eyes and meets her steady gaze, he nods. She nods back, and that seems to be enough for him to know that she's there with him, and listening, even without her words._

" _Lori - Lori, she was my wife," he tacks on as an afterthought, like he's just now remembered she wasn't around when everything happened. But then he scoffs gently, and shakes his head. "But I'm sure you know that. I'm sure you've heard the stories. That you know what happened."_

" _I have," she confesses hesitantly, afraid that this will upset him, like she'd been talking about him behind his back. "I've heard it in parts. I don't even know if I know the whole thing, but...yeah, I got the gist of what happened."_

 _He can sense her reluctance._

" _Don't worry. I'm not mad. I'm kind of relieved, actually. I really don't feel like reciting everything."_

 _She presses her lips together in a tight, closed-mouthed smile, to signal to him that she understands, before he continues._

" _I didn't expect to lose her. I know that sounds stupid. Because nowadays, you're not guaranteed anyone, for any amount of time, and it's naive to think otherwise. But, I don't know. With her, I just…"_

 _He trails off, and she clears her throat, before speaking._

" _Sometimes I think it's the people we're the closest to that we worry about losing the least. Because our lives are so intertwined with theirs, and we're so used to them being there, that we can't imagine them not being there. So we just always assume that they will be."_

 _That's certainly what happened to her._

" _Yeah," he breathes. "I guess that makes sense. So much went wrong between us. There was so much disagreement and misunderstanding and almost resentment, at times. And every once in awhile, she would reach out, or try to talk to me, and I would push it aside. Not because I didn't want to. I didn't want to leave things like that. I was just, so mad at her. And I wanted her to know it. I wanted her to feel it. I know that's wrong, but I didn't want to just let her off the hook. Brush it aside and act like nothing had ever happened."_

 _He takes his ring all the way off, twirls it between his forefinger and thumb._

" _I always thought I would have more time to make it right. That we would have more time. But we didn't, and she died, and I failed her. I've failed so many people since this whole thing started, but nothing's hurt like failing her has. I was her husband, even through all the shit we were going through, and I was supposed to protect her. But I didn't. I let that son of a bitch live, and it got her killed. And I let her die, when there was still so much left to fix."_

 _She feels the urge to comfort him. She doesn't agree with him; she doesn't think his wife's death is his fault. Not for a second. And he shouldn't blame himself for the deterioration of his marriage like he is, either. A large part of her wants to tell him this. But she doesn't, because she knows comfort and reassurances aren't what he's seeking. That he wouldn't believe him, and they wouldn't help. They would probably only frustrate him._

 _That was one of the reasons she never told Andrea her story. She knew Andrea was the kind of person who would put an arm around her and tell her how sorry she was, how she shouldn't blame herself and how there was nothing she could've done. She didn't want that. In fact, that was the last thing she wanted. She wasn't ready to forgive herself, and she didn't want anyone to waste her time or their time trying to make her. She wasn't ready. She doesn't know if she ever will be._

 _She knows he doesn't want comfort. He wants someone to listen, and she knows this because that's what she wants. And she's learning every day just how similar they are._

" _I think that's why I was seeing her, and hearing her," he goes on. "I was trying to give myself the time we never had. Making it up in my mind, since we never got it in real life. I wanted to fix it. Fix me and her. Even though she was dead."_

 _He sighs, and slips his ring back on his finger._

" _It didn't work, of course. It couldn't, because it wasn't real. So in the end, I guess it didn't solve anything. But, I don't know. Sometimes, it felt…"_

" _It felt nice, sometimes," she finishes for him. "It gave you space to work things out. To grieve. To try and understand everything that was happening in a way that no sympathy or help from anyone else was going to be able to do. And sometimes, it helped relieve that pressure that can build up in your chest when you lose someone close to you and it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers."_

" _Yeah," he says, nodding as he stares at her with wide eyes. "You really...get it, don't you?"_

 _She smiles sadly._

" _I do. And you do, too. It's not an understanding most people can claim, so it's nice to find someone who can."_

" _Yeah," he whispers again, shaking his head slightly as he tries to gather his thoughts._

" _It helped you, talking to her. Seeing her. So in the end," she says, repeating his words from before, "I guess it was helpful, after all."_

 _She gives him the tiniest grin, and he mirrors it, before turning back to the fire._

" _It still made me feel crazy, though," he tells her. "Hearing voices, seeing things that aren't there - that's not supposed to happen to normal people. That's what everyone always said. So I was pretty certain I was losing my mind. And then after seeing Morgan, the day we went back to King County. After knowing him before, and seeing what had happened to him, what he turned into. I was afraid that was gonna be me, soon. That I was gonna turn into that."_

 _He turns to her suddenly, and catches her gaze, his expression more serious than it's been all night._

" _When you told me about your boyfriend," he says solemnly, "I needed that. To know that someone else had gone through what I had, and come out on the other side - someone smart and capable and strong - it was everything. Sometimes, I don't know where I'd be without that."_

 _His eyes flit away from hers for a moment, towards the forest, and when his gaze returns to hers, there's a certain mirth to it. A wry smirk appears on his face._

" _I thought you were a lot of things when we first met, and I admit, some of them weren't very flattering. But I never thought you were crazy."_

 _Both of them laugh as silently as they can, still mindful of the sleeping boy right there with them. But he quickly becomes serious once more._

" _I needed to know that," he tells her again. "I needed you. And I never thanked you for that. You helped me through that time more than you know. So, thank you."_

 _Her fingers twitch with the urge to touch him. The feeling makes heart heartbeat double in time, and she isn't entirely sure why. It wouldn't be an odd thing to do, she tells herself. In fact, it might be the polite thing to do, after such a heavy conversation. To reach out and place a hand on his shoulder or forearm, giving a touch of gratitude or commiseration. They were friends now. That was something a friend would do._

 _But pulse is pounding and her palms are sweating, and she stops herself, turning herself away from him. She can sense something that feels like fear churning in her gut, and again, she doesn't understand it. But, whatever it is and no matter why it's there, it makes her clasp her hands together and intertwine her fingers to take away the temptation to reach out to him._

 _Instead, she murmurs, "You're welcome," and her voice is so meek that the words slip away into the silent, sleeping woods around them._

 _It isn't enough._

 _Even though she can see him nod out of the corner of her eye, confirming that he heard what she said, she knows it isn't enough. Not for her. He just gave her so much, and he deserves more than two weak words breathed into the night air. He deserves something from her, too. She should give him something back. She wants to._

 _And the words begin to leave her mouth even before she makes the conscious decision to speak them._

" _I had a son. Me and my boyfriend, we had a son."_

 _She brings her hands up to her temples to block him from her line of sight, before she can see his reaction. She's afraid if she does, or stops her story for any reason, she won't have the nerve to continue. She knows she gave a bit of it to Carl already, but there's a different feeling that comes with giving it to Rick. A sort of gravity, and significance. He'll understand the weight of it better than his son can, with him being a father himself, and with what happened to Lori and Judith. He'll share in it with her._

 _And she realizes, in that moment, that she doesn't want to carry it by herself anymore._

" _His name was Andre, and he was three, and he was perfect," she continues. "He was the light of my life. He was so smart, and kind, and beautiful. He was happy all the time, and loved the world. Loved learning about it, and being in it. He made it his own, and it was such a wonderful thing to watch. Nothing in my life has ever brought me as much joy as being with him, and watching him discover everything life had to offer. He was everything to me, and I loved him with my entire heart. More than I had ever loved anything."_

 _She pauses to take a breath, and to wipe at a tear that's gathered at the corner of her eye. She doesn't want Rick to see her cry over Andre. Not yet._

" _We were together when it all happened - me, Andre, and my boyfriend, Mike. Andre's father. Mike's best friend, Terry, was with us too. It was all so chaotic and insane, and we ended up at some FEMA camp set up about ten miles outside of Atlanta. Everything was fine, at first. Everyone was calm, and even a little hopeful. Everything was going to be fine, and the government was going to get us through it. They'd gotten us through everything before. I mean, talk about thinking something stupid._

" _The government fell apart soon enough, and so did the camp. And Mike and Terry went downhill pretty quickly after that. I was trying to stay strong. I had to, for Andre. And I tried to get them to see that, and told them to get their shit together, but they were just… so pessimistic and hopeless and gave up so easily. Hell, I might've been too if Andre wasn't there. But Andre was there, and I had to keep going for him, you know? He was the most important thing. So eventually I gave up on Mike and Terry and just focused on my son._

" _We started to run out of supplies, and a group was going out to look for more. I really didn't want to go with them, because I knew they wouldn't let me take Andre with me, but I didn't trust them enough to divide up the supplies they found evenly between everyone like they said they were going to. So I cornered Mike and Terry and told them they had to… just man up and pull themselves together for a few fucking hours while I went on this run, and take care of Andre. I made them promise me that they would. And they did. And I still loved Mike, so I still trusted him to keep that promise, so I actually felt kind of okay when I left. But when I got back - "_

 _Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat, wiping at another tear. She thinks she can hear him shift closer to her, but she still doesn't look at him._

" _As soon as the camp came into view, I could see the fences were down. I took off and ran the rest of the way. Walkers were everywhere, but I just kept cutting them down and running because I had to get to our tent. I had to get to my son. But when I got there, it was already too late. Andre was bit, and he was so sick. Mike and Terry were bit too, but I couldn't give a fuck because the tent reeked of weed. They were fucking high, Rick. They'd gotten some pot from someone and after they promised me they'd watch and protect my baby while I was gone, they smoked and got high. Mike was sobbing, and telling me how sorry he was, but I just took Andre out of his arms and went and found a safe place where I could sit with him. He was so warm, and so sick, and I held him in my arms and rocked him and told him that I was there and everything was going to be okay now, and how I loved him so much. More than anything. I held him until I couldn't anymore. And then I did what I had to."_

 _She stops speaking. She takes a deep, shaky breath, and wipes at her eyes one more time. Rick doesn't say anything, and she's fine with that. She wasn't looking for sympathy, or comfort. She just wanted to give him something._

 _And she knows there isn't really anything to say._

" _So I know how it feels, Rick," she continues once she gathers herself. "I know how it is to feel guilty. How it feels to run out of time. How it feels to fail someone. I know, Rick."_

 _She feels exhausted. Like speaking about Andre has drained all the energy from her, and she's so glad he'd decided to take first watch, because suddenly all she wants to do is lay down next to Carl and sleep._

" _I'm going to go to bed," she tells him. "Try and rest. It's been a long day, and I don't want to feel like shit tomorrow."_

 _He still doesn't speak. But again, she's not bothered by that. In fact, she feels good about what she's told him, and she didn't think that would be the case when she finally decided to share with someone. She was afraid she'd feel embarrassed that someone else knew how she let down her son, or like she'd given away some sacred part of her that she'd never be able to get back._

 _But she feels fine. She thinks maybe it's because they're so much alike._

 _She feels lighter, almost._

 _She slowly rises from her seat on the ground, stretching as she stands. As she walks past him, towards Carl, his fingers wrap around her calf gently._

 _She stops, with a jolt. His touch is unexpected, and it makes her heart flutter, just like it did when she thought about reaching out to him. She wishes she knew why._

 _She waits for him to say something, or let go of her. But he does neither. And as the seconds tick by, her stomach slowly drops. She starts to fear that he's going to tell her he's sorry, or that it wasn't her fault._

 _But she supposes she should know him better than that, by now._

" _I'm glad you made it, Michonne," he says softly. "I'm glad you found us. I'm glad you're here."_

 _She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. Her heart keeps twisting around behind her ribs._

" _I'm glad I'm here, too," she murmurs back._

 _And she means it._

 _His grip on her leg loosens. The place where his fingers held her tingle as she walks away, and a tear finally falls down her cheek.)_

He'd needed her, then. He's needed her ever since.

And she knows he needs her now.

So she gets up. He startles when he feels her leaving his side, tears his gaze away from his son and looks up at her desperately, his eyes broken and sorrowful and begging her to stay. She runs her hand over his hair, leans down and kisses his temple, lets her lips linger on his skin until she feels him relax the slightest bit. She squeezes his shoulder as she walks away and aimlessly makes her way over to the group, promising him without words that she'll be back.

She'll be _back_.

They decide to go to Hilltop to regroup and figure out what to do next. She doesn't say a word, but she nods absently as they finalize their decision. She can feel all their eyes on her as she walks back to her family, taking Judith from Daryl's arms as she passes him. No one speaks as they watch her go. Just as no one had spoken when she and Rick had come upon the rest of them in the sewer, having no inkling of the horror that awaited them on the other side of the group.

She knows there really isn't anything to say.

She doesn't kneel down again when she reaches Rick and Carl. Instead, she stands over them, staring down at Carl's gray and sunken face, at Rick slumped over into the boy's lap, his shoulders heaving. She cuddles Judith closer, and can feel the little girl pulling on one of her locs as she presses her nose into the side of Judith's face.

Rick's fingers wrap around her calf gently, and tears fall down her cheeks again as she starts to cry.

* * *

 **A/N:** I know the Andre story/confession has been done a lot, but I felt like this story and moment needed it. I hope it didn't feel too redundant.

I'm still on pain meds, and kind of miserable, so reviews would cheer me up.

As always, thanks for everything!

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	3. broken family

**Author's Note:** I think this is the fastest I've ever posted an update to anything, no joke.

Lots of dialogue and interaction between characters in this chapter, and lots of Richonne, so yay! Also, a few spoilers for 8x09 in here, so be warned.

Thank you for all your reviews and kind words for the last chapter. I hope you all enjoy this one as well!

* * *

 **chapter three: broken family**

"Michonne."

Hearing her name called from behind her back startles her, and her shoulders tense for a moment before she turns around.

Rosita is there, keeping her distance from her, Rick, Carl, and Judith, as if she's trying not to intrude on their moment. They're _all_ family - everyone gathered in these tunnels together - but they all recognize that the four of them are a separate entity, a family within a family.

Still, it puts a pang in her heart that Rosita is so hesitant. Carl is a part of them all.

Not having him will be a part of them all, too.

Michonne looks up at her from the ground, where she's crouched back down so she can speak with Carl and Rick. She's handed Judith off to her brother, and she lays on his chest now, her face nestled in the space between his chin and shoulder. A frown rests on her tiny face, her bottom lip sticking out as she pouts.

She knows something is wrong. She might not know what, but she _knows_. And she's sad.

Children always know.

Rosita can't seem to hold her gaze, her eyes flitting to the ground every few seconds as she twists her left boot into the dirt. Michonne lets out a slow breath and then reaches up to run her fingers through Rick's hair again, their silent signal that she's stepping away for a moment, but she'll be back. He leans into her hand and nods once, letting her know he understands without taking his eyes off of his children. His hand rests on Judith's back, and Carl's hand that isn't holding his sister is on top of his dad's.

Michonne leans down and kisses Carl's forehead before she rises slowly and walks over to Rosita. She follows her a few more feet into the tunnel, moving from the group until they're far enough away that they won't be overheard. Rosita looks at Michonne, chewing on her bottom lip.

"What is it?" Michonne asks finally, trying to prompt the woman to speak. She's willing to get up from the spot where her, Rick, and the kids are huddled together for a few moments, but that - a few moments - is all she has to spare.

Rosita clears her throat.

"What does he need?"

Michonne's eyebrows pull together.

"What?"

"What does he need?" Rosita repeats. "Carl. Does he need anything? We don't have much, but I can run up to the infirmary and look around. See if we have any Advil or ibuprofen or - "

"Rosita," Michonne interrupts gently. "Medicine isn't -"

She pauses as her voice cracks, and she turns her head for a moment, closing her eyes and gathering herself before turning back.

"Medicine, it's not going to do anything."

"I know," Rosita says quickly, and Michonne thinks she can see her blush in the dim light. "I know that. I just thought maybe I could find something to help with the fever. Or some painkillers or something, I don't know."

"Rosita…"

"Or Rick. Does he need anything? Or you? Even if it's just a fucking headache, I could try to find something."

"Rosita," Michonne says again, her voice raising the slightest bit.

"I just want to do something," Rosita tells her, crossing her arms and looking down again. "I feel like we're all just hanging out and watching the four of you. Standing around and watching Carl - "

She doesn't finish her sentence, her voice breaking off suddenly as she turns her head, her eyes shining. She blinks hard a few times, rubbing at them.

Michonne's heart seizes, and she feels the pressure of her own tears begin to build. She's never considered herself and Rosita particularly close, but they'd bonded some on their ill-advised trip to The Sanctuary a few days earlier. And the fact that she seems willing to brave the horror that is Alexandria right now to find something that might help them even the tiniest bit fills her with more gratitude than she can express.

She reaches out, and places a hand on Rosita's shoulder.

"Rosita, I'm not sending you up there by yourself."

"It's not a big deal," she insists. "Or I'll get Tara or Daryl to go with me."

"I'm not sending them up there, either. There's a good chance The Saviors are still here. And even if they weren't...there probably is no infirmary anymore."

Rosita's head snaps up, and she stares at Michonne with wide eyes as the gravity of her words sink in. Michonne's forgotten how long the rest of them have been down here. What they haven't seen yet.

"Just be here," Michonne tells her softly. "Keep shoring up the plan to make it to Hilltop."

"Okay," Rosita whispers, nodding her head up and down a few times. "Okay."

"Okay," Michonne murmurs back, and she squeezes Rosita's shoulder once more before letting her go and beginning to walk back to Rick, Carl, and Judith.

"I'm sorry," Rosita blurts out, before Michonne can take a step.

She turns back around, a frown on her lips.

"Rosita, I told you it's okay - "

"No," Rosita says, cutting her off as she starts to cry. "I'm sorry we didn't say anything. When you and Rick came down, when you found us. We all sat there like fucking cowards and let the two of you walk on by. We didn't even look at you."

Michonne doesn't know what to say.

Rosita lets out a grim laugh, not trying to stop or hide her tears anymore.

"We should have said something. Warned you, or got you ready. I don't know. I don't know what we should've said, but we should've said _something_. We shouldn't have just let you guys get blindsided. Just let you find him like that."

Michonne feels liquid begin to spill down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry we didn't say anything," Rosita says again, her words getting caught in her throat as she inhales sharply. "I'm sorry we couldn't do anything. We couldn't fix him. We couldn't save him."

Michonne lurches forward, pulling Rosita into a tight embrace. Rosita hugs her back without hesitation.

"This wasn't supposed to happen to him," she mutters. "And we were all scared. We're still so scared."

"It's okay," Michonne whispers, her voice unsteady as her tears continue to fall. "You didn't have to say anything. We're not mad at you for that. And there's nothing you could've done. Not by the time you found out."

They hug for a few seconds more before they let go of each other.

"I wish we could've done something," Rosita stutters out.

Michonne nods. Her heart beats unevenly, and she folds her arms over her stomach, trying to curl into herself, as if she's been stabbed.

"I wish we could've done something, too."

She looks at Rosita's face once more, her cheeks still streaked with tears. She doesn't think she's ever seen Rosita cry before, except for that horrible night in the clearing.

Not having Carl will be a part of them all.

"Do you want to talk to him?" Michonne asks. "Do you want to tell him goodbye?"

 _Goodbye_. The word makes her curl up further.

Rosita brings her hand up to wipe at her face roughly.

"Yeah," she answers.

* * *

Rosita, Tara, and Daryl are the only ones of their family that are there with them, instead of off fighting their war elsewhere. She wishes there were more of them there - Maggie and Enid's faces pop into her mind - but they don't have the time or the means to go get them.

The three of them take their turns, one by one, crouching down beside Carl's cot and spending a few moments with him, passing whispered words back and forth, sharing tears and bittersweet smiles and fond memories.

It should be touching, she thinks, that all of them want to be with him, want a moment with him while they can still have one. But there's also something undoubtedly and overwhelmingly morbid about it, and she can only watch for a few minutes before she turns from the scene. Rick stands a few yards away, holding Judith close to his chest, staring off into the empty darkness that takes over as the tunnel tapers off in the distance.

He doesn't turn his head when she approaches him, but he seems to hear her, and sense her.

"It's good they get to talk to him," he says, his voice rough and deep from crying. "It's good for them. It's good for Carl."

She can hear in his voice that there's more he wants to say.

"But?" she prompts gently.

He lets out a short, grim laugh and shakes his head, squeezing Judith closer to him.

"I feel like they're takin' him from us. Takin' our time with him."

She hears him inhale, and exhale slowly, his entire body shaking as he does. She steps closer to him and links their arms together, then wraps herself around him and Judith.

"We don't have that left - time," he says, his voice breaking as he drops his head and rests it on top of hers. "We don't have any of it left."

She wants to reassure him - it's her instinct to try and make him feel better, to make him smile, to make him happy - but she knows there's nothing she can say that will. There's no way to, so she just twists herself closer to the two of them.

They're quiet for a moment. She closes her eyes and starts to count Judith's breaths as the little girl's back rises and falls against her, to try and keep her thoughts from wandering.

"I should've done something."

She opens her eyes when she hears Rick's voice, lifts her gaze to find him still staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched.

"I could've done something different. If I would've been nicer to that guy he went to get, heard him out. Gave him some food. Hell, maybe I should've just brought him back with us. Carl wouldn't have gone to look for him. He would've had no reason to. He wouldn't have gone out there, alone."

Her heart breaks as she listens to him, hears his guilt and his pain. She knows it. She's _felt_ it. She feels an echo of it now, burning and poisoning her. It keeps intensifying with every pump of blood through her veins.

Because _she_ was the one who he left in Alexandria with their son. It was because she was injured; he didn't leave her behind to watch Carl, or to babysit either him or Judith. But there was an agreement between them, an understanding that didn't need to be explained or even stated.

No matter what, they protected Carl and Judith. It didn't matter the mission, or where they were, who they were with. What they were fighting for. They protected Carl and Judith, above all else. Above themselves. _Always_.

But she had left. It wasn't expected or prepared for. It wasn't part of the plan. But she'd done it anyways. She didn't think it through, and she _left_ , and Carl got _bit_.

And now here they are.

"I'm his father," Rick continues, sounding tortured. "I'm his father, and I'm supposed to protect him. There had to be something I could've done to protect him."

 _No!_ she screams inside. _No! Don't do that, it's not your fault. It's not your fault._

She wants to tell him this. She almost does, but as she opens her mouth she's reminded of their conversation by the fire, all those nights ago, when he talked about Lori and when she told him about Andre. The first time she'd told anyone the full story of what happened to her baby.

She remembers how she felt. She didn't want anyone to try and comfort her. She wasn't ready for it.

And she knows he's not ready for it now. She'll tell him. She'll help him understand.

But not yet.

For now, she turns her head slightly, and presses her lips against his bicep.

She feels him shift, and looks up to find him staring down at her with watery eyes.

"What are we gonna do, 'Chonne?" he whispers.

His face distorts as her vision blurs, tears filling her eyes for a countless time in the past hour or so, and she reaches up to cradle his cheek in her hand, running her thumb across the skin of his cheek.

"I don't know," she breathes.

They hear their names called, and they turn to find Rosita, Tara, and Daryl standing up next to Carl's bed. Rosita nods at her and then begins to usher Tara and Daryl away, while Michonne grabs Rick's elbow and pulls him toward their son. They crouch down, and Judith reaches for her brother again, whining impatiently.

"Hey, Judy," Carl murmurs, trying to put a smile on his face. He only manages to lift one corner of his mouth, though, and Michonne's stomach churns. She can see how much he's struggling, and a chill runs up her spine as she realizes how much worse he's gotten, even in the short time she and Rick stepped away.

Rick begins to loosen his hold on Judith and pass her to Carl, but Carl hesitates, pulling back a bit and shaking his head.

"I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't. I…"

He trails off, biting his lip and turning his head towards the wall. When he looks back, his eye is so wide and sad and scared that it almost knocks her over.

"I don't feel good," he chokes out, and Michonne grips his arm. She can feel how warm and feverish his skin is under her fingertips.

She can't find her voice, and she's glad Rick manages to find his.

"You're not contagious, Carl."

"I know," Carl assures him. "I know. But what if something happens. What if it's quicker than it used to be, or varies from person to person, and what if I would - "

His words are cut off as he coughs violently, and her skin is crawling. She wants to jump out of it, curl up somewhere and travel to some alternate universe where this isn't happening. Where the world didn't end, where Andre didn't die. Where her and Rick met sharing a cab or in the children's wing of the museum, at a bar or a barbeque or some long-lost mutual friend's wedding. Where they fell in love over dinner dates and long walks in parks, during warm summer evenings that turned into perfect starry nights, and during crisp autumn mornings spent sipping coffee on his front porch, a quilt wrapped around them. Where she met a Carl that was healthy and effervescent, with the same infectious laugh and quick wit. A Carl with the same long, chestnut-brown hair and bangs that continuously flopped into his face, his cheeks flushed with life and his crystal blue eyes sparkling. Where Judith had Rick's eyes and nose and smile, and was his in every possible way, undoubtedly, freeing him from that hurt he always carried with him.

She wants a universe where her and Rick get married in a small church on a warm, sunny, spring afternoon, among their closest family and friends. She wants Carl to be his best man, Judith to be the flower girl, and Andre to be the ring bearer. She wants Hershel to perform the ceremony, and she wants Maggie and Glenn to be there with their beautiful, little baby. She wants Andrea, Sasha, and Rosita to playfully fight over her bouquet, and she wants to watch Tara and Denise slow dance at the reception while Beth sings. She wants to laugh at Daryl shifting around uncomfortably in a suit, to roll her eyes at Abraham as he takes every opportunity to make a suggestive comment. And at the end of the night, she wants Rick to sweep her away to somewhere peaceful and beachy, to kiss her in the ocean as waves break around them. Then, she wants him to take her away to some private bungalow at the end of each day, and make love to her well into the night, until they fall asleep tangled together, exhausted and sated and full of joy.

Afterwards, she wants to go home to their family, and she wants to live the rest of her life with them. She wants to see Carl and Andre and Judith and her children with Rick grow up into the wonderful adults she knows they'll be, who have families and lives and love of their own.

She wants a universe where death and fear and violence don't lurk around every corner and constantly hang above their heads, waiting to drop at the slightest disturbance. Where she doesn't have to go to bed and worry as she falls asleep. Where she knows the people she loves are safe.

She wants them to be happy. That's all she wants.

But here they are. Her husband is on the verge of breaking apart, her daughter is sad and scared, and her son is dying in front of her, for a second time.

All she ever wanted was for them to be happy.

But, she thinks again, maybe that was too much for her to want, and maybe she's been condemned by some higher power for being so greedy.

She shakes her head and snaps herself out of her thoughts to find Carl still resisting his sister, and she leans down, pushing his hair aside to kiss his forehead.

"Sweetheart," she murmurs, "we'd never let anything happen to her. Never. You know that."

"She'll be fine," Rick adds. "We promise."

Carl's gaze darts between the two of them over and over until he finally accepts, and Judith crawls back to him, this time sitting up to grab and pull on his nose and ears. He tries to smile again, but it turns into a grimace as he inhales in pain, and her hold on his arm tightens.

They're all quiet, except for Judith, who babbles as she continues to tug at her brother. Michonne squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to pull herself from this nightmare that's holding her hostage.

But it's not a dream, and she doesn't wake up.

She doesn't know how much time has passed when she hears Carl's voice rasp. The world around her is spinning, and she can barely keep track of her own name, let alone the seconds and minutes ticking by.

"Dad? Michonne?"

Both her and Rick scoot closer to him, bending over slightly so they can hear him better.

"What is it?" Rick asks softly.

"I don't want everyone to be here when it happens," he tells them, motioning with his eye towards the rest of the group. He takes a deep breath, and then looks at the little girl sitting on his chest.

"I don't want Judy to be here, either. I don't want her to see it. To see _me_."

"Carl," Rick protests immediately, but Carl stops him.

"Please don't argue," he begs. "It's what I want. Please let me have it. Please. Can't it...Can't it just be the three of us? I want it to be the three of us."

Rick stares at his son, his mouth hanging open, before he looks to Michonne. She nods to him, and he blinks hard, once, before turning back to Carl.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

"Thank you," Carl mutters weakly.

He wraps his arms around Judith, hugging him to her with all the strength he can muster, and whispers words of love into her soft, blonde locks. Michonne hears him ask the girl to remember him - to, somehow, remember him. Michonne looks up and, for the first time in as long as she can recall, says a silent prayer that Judith does.

He lets her go and passes her back to her father, tears now streaking down his cheeks. Michonne leans down and kisses his forehead again.

"We'll be back in a second," she promises him.

She gets up and walks over to the rest of the group, and Rick follows her this time. They all turn when the two of them approach, silent and waiting for what they have to say.

"Gather everyone up and get them to The Hilltop," she instructs them. "We'll meet you there later."

"Take Judith with you," Ricks says as he passes her to Tara.

"What about you?" Daryl grunts to the both of them.

"We'll be there later," Michonne tells them again.

"But…" Rosita starts.

"We will," Rick ensures them. "We will. Just go without us for now. Please."

Tara, Daryl, and Rosita glance at each other before hesitantly giving them their agreement, asking the two of them to be careful before walking to the rest of the group and beginning to get them ready.

Rick and Michonne go back to Carl as soon as they can, sitting down beside him once more. His eye is closed, and they look at each other in a panic before Carl blinks it open, looking at them questioningly.

"Everyone?"

"They're leaving," Michonne reports to him.

"It'll just be the three of us," Rick promises.

The ghost of a smile passes over Carl's face, and he nods.

"Good. That's what I want - the three of us."

He closes his eye again.

Rick and Michonne lock gazes, and then lean into each other, both reaching out and taking one of their son's hands in theirs.

* * *

Carl asks the two of them to take him up after the rest of the group heads out to begin the trip to The Hilltop. They both hesitate, not sure if they want Carl's last view of Alexandria to be of it abandoned and up in flames. But Carl insists, telling them he doesn't want to spend his last moments in a cold, dark sewer. Their hearts shatter in their chests as they absorb his words, realizing the truth in them, and they relent.

Rick goes up before them, to make sure there aren't any Saviors left milling about, waiting to ambush them as soon as they emerge from underground. Michonne tries to go with him, but he insists on going alone, not wanting to put her in harm's way. She opens her mouth to protest, to tell him that's not how things work between them. That they're a team, and they do things like this _together_ , always. But she looks into his eyes and sees the anguish flooding the blue of his irises, the pain. The panic that another one of the people he loves the most will get hurt on this hellish night. She knows he needs this, that he feels like everything he cares about and everything he knows is sliding out of his grip like grains of sand falling through his fingers while he can only watch, helpless and hopeless. He needs to feel productive, _useful_. And one of them really should stay with Carl.

So she lets him go, reluctantly, and watching him walk away from her feels wicked and criminal, wrong to the highest degree. Every second that passes without him there feels like an entire lifetime. She tries to figure how long she should wait before she goes after him - how long is _too long_ \- but before she can decide she hears footsteps echoing and turns to find him walking out of the darkness towards her. She almost laughs from the overwhelming relief that floods every cell in her body, but then Carl groans and she sees his pallid face out of the corner of her eye, and any kind of chuckle that might've been brewing is trapped inside her, shriveling up and dying in her throat.

Rick reports that the coast is clear, so he and Michonne gather up Carl, slinging his arms around their necks and helping him walk. Once they manage to all three make it out of the sewer, Rick and Michonne look to Carl, waiting instruction.

They both watch as Carl's eye mists as he takes in the flames and smoke and ruin all around him, but after a moment he blinks and shakes his head, turning to them.

"Can we go home?" he asks. "I want to go home."

Thankfully, they can grant his request. Negan decided to spare their house, for some odd reason she hasn't figured out quite yet. But she supposes that in the end, it doesn't matter. The important thing is that they _can_ take Carl home, and they start off towards their street, their pace slow but steady with their son draped around them.

When they arrive and walk through the door, they immediately take Carl into the living room and sit him down on the couch, and settle on either side of him. He's heaving and gasping, and they can see how exhausted he is, even from their relatively short walk here. Once he catches his breath, he shuts his eye and leans his head back on the couch cushions.

"Thank you," he whispers to them, reaching out and grasping their hands again, like he had in the tunnels.

He doesn't say anything after that. None of them do. There's really nothing to say - nothing to say that hasn't been said already - so they sit in silence, appreciating the feeling of being next to each other, and the knowledge that they get to be together.

She wants to stay in this moment for as long as possible - sitting on the couch in her home with her two favorite boys. She wants to trap it in amber and live in it forever.

But the surprisingly peaceful atmosphere is broken when Carl shifts and reaches for the gun still holstered at his hip.

Both Rick and Michonne look at him in confusion, even though a part of Michonne feels like it should be obvious what's happening. Perhaps her mind won't let her accept it or process it, in a final, desperate act of self-preservation. Perhaps Rick's mind is doing the same.

Carl stares off across the room, at nothing.

"I have to do it now," he says slowly. "I have to do it now, because I'm not gonna be able to do it for much longer."

What he means and what he plans to do hits them both at the same time, violently.

"Carl!" Rick yelps.

"Someone has to do it," Carl tells them. "Someone has to do it, and I'm not gonna make it be either of you. I'm not gonna do that to either of you. I won't."

"Carl," Rick says again, his voice softer and unsteady. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't know what he should say, or could say. Words won't come.

She knows this because words won't come to her, either.

A macabre silence engulfs the room. If she listens closely, she can hear the crackle of the numerous fires still burning outside.

"I promised you," she chokes out suddenly. "I promised you, that night on the porch. You said you would do it for me, and I would do it for you. I promised."

"I know," Carl murmurs. "I remember. But...I'm not making you put down another one of your kids."

Her chest seizes like her heart's stopped, and any response she was building falls apart inside her at his words.

"I've thought about it," Carl says as he gets up, staring down at the gun he holds in his hand. "I've been thinking about it this whole time, and this is what I've decided. This is what I want. I want it to happen on my own terms. I want to be in control of it."

He lets out a slow exhale, and drops his eye to the floor.

"You're not gonna change my mind," he tells them.

They both want to speak. They both want to try to change his mind, to put this off for awhile longer. But they remain quiet. Their minds are short-circuiting and their tongues are limp and their vocal chords are tangled and twisted.

Carl takes their silence as their acceptance of his decision, and he nods, mumbling out another thank you before walking towards Michonne. He wraps his arms around her, drops his head into the crook of her neck and tells her how much he loves her. She thinks she's hugging him back, and telling him that she loves him too, that meeting him saved her, that he means so much to her, even more than she can say. But she can't be sure because she feels numb and her brain is fuzzy and she can't breathe.

He lets her go and goes over to his dad. She knows they're saying goodbye, but she can't decipher their voices, and can't turn her head and look. She can't make sense of what's going on. She can't move.

She's vaguely aware of him walking out of the room. And then she hears the front door open and close, barely, because it feels like her whole head is underwater, or like someone's shoved cotton in her ears.

She wants to look at Rick, to hold him, but she doesn't know what going on. The room around her is spinning, and she's numb. She can't feel her body, and she can't see or speak or think or hear.

And then a gunshot pierces through the thick haze she's lost in. A single gunshot, sharp and clear, ringing out throughout the lonely, chaotic night.

She's not numb anymore. Her heart and soul have been ripped in two, and she feels like she's on fire.

She can hear Rick weeping beside her. A sob rips through her as she begins to cry.

It doesn't feel like she'll ever be able to stop.

* * *

 **A/N:** I probably would've gotten this up yesterday, or even the day before, but I wanted to include the last section in this chapter, and not stretch Carl's death out to the next one, too. Now we can get on to the aftermath, where hopefully our lovelies will be able to find a bit of light in all this darkness.

Good luck tomorrow! Know I'm there with you in spirit, giving you a hug and some Kleenex.

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	4. rick and michonne

**Author's Note:** Longest chapter yet, yay!

If last chapter was my 8x09, this chapter is my 8x10. I promise there's no Negan and no Junkyardigans.

Be nice to Rick.

Thanks for reading and reviewing. You're all so lovely, and I wish I could give each of you a giant hug.

* * *

 **chapter four: rick and michonne**

Carl taught Judith how to walk.

They all had a hand in it, of course. The four of them liked to spend evenings when they all were home from runs and watch and any other tasks that needed to be attended to so Alexandria stayed afloat, together in the living room. They pushed the coffee table out of the way and Carl sat cross-legged on one side of the room while Rick and Michonne sat across from him, backs against the couch, and hands loosely linked together once they realized their feelings for each other. They beckoned and urged Judith to move between the three of them across the floor, first on her hands and knees and then with wobbly steps that grew steadier with each passing day.

Sometimes Daryl would be there, sitting in the armchair near the corner of the room, picking at his fingernails with his knife and trying to hide the smiles that kept creeping onto his face as he watched the little girl amble back and forth. Or Carol, or Maggie and Glenn, or any other member of their family that was passing through for the night.

The four of them - Rick, Michonne, Carl, and Judith - were always there.

But it was undoubtedly Carl who did most of the teaching, always on the move with his sister. First, with both her tiny fists wrapped around one of his fingers on each hand, him hunched over her and spouting off words of praise of encouragement in a soft, high-pitched voice reserved only for his sister; words that she didn't understand but took comfort in anyway, speaking back to Carl in long babbles and happy squeaks and squeals. Then, she held just one of his hands with one of hers as she became surer of herself. And soon enough, she was walking alongside him all on her own, as her brother grinned down at her proudly.

There's an open area right next to their house, and on warm, pleasant days he liked to sit in the grass and teach Judith there. The ground outside was softer for her to fall on, he'd say, and he and Judith got to examine bugs and dirt and grass and clovers and whatever else the two could find. He'd say he was helping her get to know the world.

Michonne and Rick started to call it Carl and Judith's spot, and somehow that name spread throughout the community, until everyone referred to it that way. Carl and Judith's spot.

That's where they bury him.

They didn't really know where they were going when they finally managed to stop their tears and walk outside, Michonne holding a clean, white sheet that she'd retrieved from the dryer. Neither one spoke when they found him, leaning against the side of the house, eye closed, hat on the ground beside him. Instead, they moved mindlessly and automatically. They moved according to the muscle memory they'd acquired burying too many loved ones before him.

They'd wrapped him in the sheet and then picked him up, walking down the porch steps and starting down the road. She supposes they'd been headed to Alexandria's cemetery, but when they reached that open patch of grass, they'd both paused and locked eyes with each other. And they decided, without words, setting his body down on the ground gingerly.

They hadn't spoken since it happened. They still haven't.

She _hates_ digging the grave. She hates every grave she has to dig, but she despises this one more than most. It feels like it takes _days_ to finish, and her hands are raw from rubbing up against the wood of her shovel's handle. Her back is sore, and her feet ache, and dust from the dirt keeps swirling up her nostrils and clogging her lungs. She keeps coughing, and it feels like she can't breathe. And she's so, _so tired_ , and she wants to stop. She wants to put down her shovel, lay down on the ground right where she is, and curl up and sleep for one hundred years.

But she doesn't stop. She doesn't stop, because Rick doesn't stop, and because they have to finish. Because they have to finish for their son, and because she won't make Rick do this alone.

She keeps digging. Eventually, they finish, and then they lower his body down, Rick placing one more kiss onto his forehead before climbing out of the grave. They each toss a handful of dirt onto his body, and then pick their shovels back up to start filling in the hole they've dug.

After they're done, Rick walks over to the closest tree and snaps off two branches. He pulls out some shoelace from his back pocket that he must've grabbed from the house while she'd been getting the sheet, and uses it to tie the branches together into a cross. Then, he comes back and screws it into the ground at the head of the grave, and crouches down, bowing his head.

She wants to go to him. She wants to sit beside him and wrap her arm around his shoulders. She wants to mourn with him.

But she's hesitant. She doesn't know if he'd want it, or if he wants a moment alone with Carl. She hasn't been able to get a read on him since it happened, since that gunshot rang through the air and tore up their lives.

And she's _scared_. Because she's been able to read Rick since she found him and Carl in that house after the prison burned. Because she knows him - knows every inch of him. Because he's a part of her.

But right now, he feels so far away. Far enough away that she feels _alone_ , and she's been with him so long and loved and been loved by him so much that she'd forgotten what being alone was like.

She feels it now, its blackness creeping into the corners of her heart like spilled ink, and it makes goosebumps rise on her skin.

He rises suddenly, hanging Carl's gun on the cross for a moment before taking it back off and clipping it to his belt.

She sees a walker limping towards them out of the corner of her eye, so she grabs her sword and spears it through the head.

She doesn't even have time to lift her eyes from the walker as it lies on the pavement and turn around before Rick passes by her, walking back towards the house. Without a word, or a touch, or a pause. It's like she isn't there. Like he doesn't even see her.

And she's _so scared_.

* * *

There are too many walkers wandering through the streets. And their number keeps increasing the longer she's outside, which mean either The Saviors managed to pry the front gate open, or there's a breach in the wall somewhere. Either way, she has to find it and fix it.

She walks to the gate first, her eyes staying on the walls the entire way there, peeled for damage and weaknesses. She doesn't spot any, and when she arrives at the entrance of the community, she finds the gate firmly shut, just as it always is.

She sighs, lowering her head towards the ground and closing her eyes. The absolute last thing she wants to do right now is walk the entire perimeter. So she decides to take a different route back towards the house, hoping she'll find the opening on the way.

After she walks the first block, she comes upon their cemetery. The small area of land they've fenced off so the community has a place to bury their dead. One that they're forced to expand far, far too frequently.

She stops, stares at the cemetery with a blank look on her face, her mouth hanging open slightly.

She knew she'd pass it if she walked home this way, somewhere in the back of her mind. She _had_ to have known. She's walked these streets countless times, been to so many funerals, helped shovel out more graves than she cares to remember.

But she didn't think of it. There are too many distraction, too many thoughts tumbling around in her mind, and she didn't think of it.

Damn it, _why didn't she think of it?_

Now she gazes at all the friends and loved ones she's had to lay to rest, helplessly, frozen in place, as if the cemetery's taken on some gravitational pull that won't let her leave or even move, no matter how much she may want to.

The white paint on the steel panel behind the field catches her eyes, and she stares at the names of all the people they've lost and memorialized in plain sight so everyone can see and remember. She blinks, and wonders when Rick will add Carl's name. If their home will even be around anymore - if Alexandria will stop burning, and if they'll be able to clear the ruins and build it up again - for him to get the chance.

Her heart cries and aches and strains in her chest.

She's grieved enough over the past few years to last ten lifetimes, and she's so tired. Tired of missing people, tired of being sad. Tired of mourning people she should grow old with. Mourning people who should've died long, long after her.

She's _exhausted_ , and she doesn't want to do it anymore.

She doesn't know if she can do it anymore. Not this time.

Suddenly, she hears a groan in her ear, and she's freed from her trance, spinning around to find a walker closing in on her. She kicks it away as she pulls out her katana, and then slices its head in two as it stumbles back.

Once it falls, she takes in her surroundings, wiping at the liquid that's welled up in her eyes without her realizing it. She finds far more walkers gathering around her than were at the fence, or around Carl and Judith's spot. She stands up on her toes, and looks beyond where she is, at the wall ahead.

Her shoulders drop in relief when she spots the breach, and she jogs toward it, cutting enough walkers down along the way so she can make it there safely. Since she doesn't have any building materials with her, she kills the walkers trying to make it inside so that their dead bodies pile up against each other and block the way.

When she's satisfied the barrier will hold, she turns around, and gulps as she surveys the scene around her.

There are too many walkers wandering around the streets. Not enough that she wouldn't be able to handle putting them down, if Rick were with her, but so many that all the alarms in her head are going off, and an uncomfortable feeling starts to roll through her stomach.

They need to get out of here.

She takes off, running back in the direction she came, slicing up walkers as she goes.

* * *

It's quiet when she walks through the front door and into their house. Quiet enough that she starts to fear that Rick isn't here anymore, that he wandered off somewhere else and she'll end up having to search the whole community anyways, despite her finding the damage to the wall rather easily.

After she searches the entire downstairs and finds it empty, she starts up to the second floor. She comes upon Carl's room first, and she pauses as she places her hand on the doorknob. She closes her eyes, turning off her mind and stuffing her feelings, before pushing at the door. She opens it only long enough to confirm that Rick's not in there, and then yanks it shut and turns on her heel, moving on quickly so that her thoughts can't linger on anything that might make her break down again.

Her old room is next, and she steps inside and finds it empty. She finds the same thing when she peeks into Judith's room, and then into the hall bathroom. Both are quiet and undisturbed.

Their room is the only one left, and her growing worry churns in her stomach as she approaches the door. She holds her breath as she turns the knob, and closes her eyes.

When she opens them, she sees Rick sitting on the edge of his side of the new mattress they found recently, facing the window.

She lets out a long breath as her muscles release the tension that seized them the moment she found the house silent and vacant. He doesn't turn towards her as she enters the room, and his head is dropped down to his chest, his knees pulled up towards him as he rest his forearms across them. His shoulders droop, and he looks as tired and sad as she feels. But at least he's _there_.

She walks over to him cautiously, trying to make sure she doesn't startle him. He hasn't acknowledged her, so she can't be sure he's aware that she's there yet, or if he's lost in his own head and ignorant of everything going on around him. She'd understand if he was.

She kneels down in front of him, bends over slightly as she attempts to catch his gaze.

"Rick," she says, her voice slow and soft.

He doesn't move an inch, or address her in any way.

"Rick," she repeats, louder. She allows a hint of urgency to seep into her tone.

When he still doesn't respond, she scoots nearer to him and begins to lean forward again, hoping she's able to get him to make eye contact with her this time. She notices his whole body is trembling the closer she comes.

She'd thought her entire heart had shattered already, but some piece that managed to evade the pain cracks apart as she watches him. Or perhaps the shambles in which her heart lies are simply breaking all over again, into smaller bits and sharper shards. Either way, she wants to hold him. But she doesn't know if he'd want her to, just like she hadn't known if he'd want her to join him as he crouched over Carl's grave.

She feels so far away from him.

"Rick, we have to go," she says, as she reaches out to him. As soon as her hand lands on top of his, he flinches, and she pulls back swiftly, folding her hands together in her lap and willing herself not to cry.

"A part of the wall came apart," she informs him, now that she knows he's at least cognizant of her presence there with him. "I found it and blocked it up temporarily, but a good number of walkers got in before I could. I'm confident we could take them out if we worked together, but we need to go to The Hilltop anyways, so what's the point of risking it and trying to take them out now by ourselves, when we could bring back more people later and do it then? We just need to get out of here now, before they all manage to follow me back here and surround the house."

He doesn't answer her.

She sighs as she closes her eyes, bringing her hands up so she can massage her temples with the tips of her fingers.

She doesn't know how to do this. Before, when Andre had died, she'd been left by herself, to mourn on her own. She didn't cope in the healthiest way, she knows, but at least she was only responsible for herself, free to do whatever she wanted without consequence to anything other than her own person.

She doesn't know how to sort out her own grief while also helping someone else through theirs. She doesn't know how she'll ever find the strength to do both.

"Rick," she whispers.

"I can't," he mutters, cutting her off before she can say anything else. A weight lifts from inside her chest when she realizes that they're talking again.

"Yes, you can," she tells him. "I know you can."

"No, Michonne. I can't!" he insists with a slight yell, and he snaps his head up and finally meets her eyes. His blue ones are still cloudy and red-rimmed, dark circles sitting underneath them.

"I can't," he stutters again, quieter this time. He shakes his head, and moves his gaze so that he's staring past her and out the window, a blank look on his face. "I don't even...I'm - I'm not...I just don't...I can't, Michonne."

"I know you're hurting. I know it feels like nothing is ever going to be okay again. Trust me, Rick, I know. I feel that way too. But, Rick. You're one of the strongest people I've ever known, and if anyone can do this, you're the one who can. We'll do it together."

She glances over her shoulder, out the window, and she can see more walkers starting to gather outside. She turns back to him.

"But we _have_ to do it, and we have to do it now. We're just going to go to Hilltop," she promises him. "That's all. And then we can breathe and figure out what to do next when we get there."

He keeps staring out the window, his expression stoic and faraway. She doesn't know what to say. She's grasping at straws.

"When Andre died," she begins, as she wraps her arms around herself, "I lost everything. I was by myself, had been betrayed by the people I loved and trusted, and I - "

"Yeah, Michonne, I know," he interrupts abruptly, turning towards her. His eyes are hard, and there's an edge to his voice that makes her spine crawl. "I know I have to suck it up, because this isn't as bad as what you went through, and nothing will ever be as bad as what you went through. You win the biggest tragedy contest, and the rest of us just have to get through whatever shit happens to us, because we'll never be in as much pain as you were."

She gazes at him, dumbfounded, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, taken aback by the harshness of his stare and the ire in his voice.

"That's not...that's not what I meant _at all_."

"What did you mean, then?" he mumbles, his voice gruff. He scratches his thumb across his forehead.

"I meant…" she starts, slowly, still trying to gather herself after what he said. "I meant that when everything happened, and Andre died, I felt like the world was ending. But I found a way to make myself keep going, even when I didn't want to. And eventually, those wounds began to heal and I didn't have to force myself to live anymore. I got to the point where I _wanted_ to live again. So that's what we have to do. We have to make ourselves get up and keep going, until we can get to the point where we can see the good in the world again."

He doesn't answer her right away. Instead, he looks towards the window again, and she hopes he's taking a breath and clearing his mind, ridding himself of whatever came over him moments before.

But when he brings his gaze back to her, that coldness and severity is still there, swimming in the blue of his eyes, stealing away the calm that usually washes over her when they look at each other.

"Sorry, 'Chonne," he tells her, the edge in his voice even sharper than before, "but I remember how you were when you got to the prison. And if that's the way you want me to cope, then I'm gonna have to pass on that. Because it seems like you weren't doing a very good job of it."

She feels like he's punched her in the gut.

And it's not even what he says, really. It's _how_ he says it. It's the stern tenor in his voice and the frigid, bitter glint in his eyes.

She feels so far away from him. She feels like they're on different _planets_. Like she can hardly see him anymore.

She feels like he's slipping away from her.

"You don't get to do this," she says, getting up off the floor and starting towards the door. "You don't get to do this to me."

"Where are you going?" he asks, his eyes following her as she walks away from him.

"You don't get to be mean just because you're grieving," she tells him, pausing in the threshold of the room and turning back towards him. "That's not an excuse for you to be mean to me. That's not how this works. I know you're angry, and I know you're mourning, but you don't get to be mean to me."

"Michonne, wait…" he murmurs, eyes dropping towards the floor.

"No," she barks immediately, and he closes his mouth. "I'm going to go down the hall, and you're going to stay in here and figure out what the fuck is going on with you. And you're going to pull your shit together until you can get out of here and get to the van, and make it to Hilltop with me. Until then, leave me the fuck alone."

She turns and begins to walk down the hall before she can see his reaction. She thinks she might hear his voice calling after her, but she ignores it.

She stops when she gets to her old room, enters and then closes the door behind her with a loud bang. She kicks off her shoes and crawls onto the gathering of blankets on the floor, laying on her side and folding her hands under her head on the pillow.

She doesn't even bother getting under the sheets. She doesn't have the energy.

She stares out the window mindlessly, cursing the sun for how it shines outside, its brightness so starkly clashing with the misery that seems to be swallowing her up from every side. She feels like she should cry, but she doesn't have any tears left inside her.

She's so drained that she's at the point where she can't hold her eyes open any longer, so she doesn't put up a fight when her eyelids fall shut. And before she knows it, she falls into a dark, heavy, and dreamless sleep.

* * *

She's woken up by the sound of walkers moaning.

She feels ridiculously groggy when she stirs, and although her sleep was deep, she can tell that it was neither peaceful or restful. She rubs at her still-tired eyes before getting up and making her way over to the window.

The sun is much more dull than it was when she fell asleep, and she can tell it's sometime in the early evening. And when she peers out of the window, she finds a multitude of walkers gathered outside, filling the yard and the sidewalk and spilling out into the street.

She closes her eyes with a sigh, and rests her head upon the window's cool, glass panel. This is why she and Rick needed to _go_ , hours ago. This is the type of situation she wanted to avoid.

She doesn't move for several minutes, leaning against the window, eyes closed. Her thoughts are so _loud_ in her head, spinning through her brain and bouncing back and forth against the sides of her skull, like a ping-pong ball. And they're _deafening_. They're too loud for her to even make sense of them. Instead, they scream at her, like a blaring alarm between her ears that won't stop, won't leave her alone.

It's been that way since Carl died.

She opens her eyes again, and watches the walkers below her, constantly pushing up against the house. Walkers are obsessive and persistent, and they keep chasing after the last thing that caught their attention until another sound or movement distracts them. And since Alexandria is empty and quiet, her running past them is still the most recent thing to trigger their instincts.

She turns her head to look up the street, and sees a continuous stream of them ambling in her direction. The ones that weren't out there when she was are just following the herd, like some sort of sick, rotted sheep.

And suddenly, a deep hatred for each and every one of them blooms in her belly.

She's _always_ hated them, of course. And she's grown to hate them more with each passing day, as they constantly take from her. They took both of her sons and they took so many of her friends and so much of her family.

And they just keep taking, and taking, and taking and taking and taking and taking and taking…

She can't stand it. She can't _take_ it. And she can't even put into the words how much she _despises_ them in this specific moment. The feeling rolls over her skin like a fire, hot and burning everything in its wake. It fills every cell in her body, and she _can't take it anymore._

Before she knows what she's doing, she turns and picks up her katana from where it lays on the floor. She walks over to the bedroom door and throws it open, and then rushes down the stairs and straight out the front door.

She pauses on the front porch only for a moment, watching them try and fail to make their way towards her, the coordination needed to climb stairs long gone from their bodies. They reach out towards her, their jaws opening and closing incessantly, staring with cloudy, dead eyes.

She unsheaths her sword, and runs down the stairs.

She doesn't think as she starts cutting them down. Instead, she relies on instinct and the skill she's gained after _years_ of finding and killing the dead. She's had more than enough practice. She's an expert now - at taking them out in general, and with using her sword - and she doesn't need to concentrate anymore. She doesn't need to _think_. So she lets their groans drown out the shrill ringing in her ears, and swings around her katana, going off of her hard-won muscle memory.

Even still, there's a small voice stirring from someplace deep inside her. It's screaming at her. Crying out that there's too many walkers here for her to take on, that she needed Rick to help her before and she _especially_ needs his help now, if she's to have any hope of getting this done. Yelling that she's being reckless, and that this is dangerous, and she _can't do it by herself._

But she pushes the voice down, drowns it in the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

She refuses to _think_.

She keeps going, and her arms start to ache but it doesn't matter because she's resolved not to stop until she disposes of every single walker in front of her. She keeps swinging and slicing with her katana, moving with a certain grotesque grace. With some sort of grim artistic touch that she shouldn't have had to acquire, but a touch that she did acquire anyways.

"Michonne."

His voice cuts through the fog in her brain like a knife. She stiffens as she hears him call her name from the porch behind her, the katana dropping to her side. But then, a walker moans in her ear, and she springs back into action, swiveling and splitting the walker's head in two before continuing to chop away at the dead around her.

"Michonne!" he yells again, but she doesn't turn around.

"'Chonne, there's too many of them. We can't do this by ourselves, it's too dangerous. You have to come inside. You said it yourself. It's too risky."

She doesn't stop.

"'Chonne, you need to _come back inside_."

She doesn't stop.

"Michonne!" he shouts. He's starting to sound desperate.

But she _doesn't stop_.

"Fucking _hell_ , Michonne!"

She hears the pounding of his boots as he sprints down the stairs towards her, and she turns on her heel, her katana still raised.

" _Fuck!"_

He's closer than she thought he'd be, and he has to crouch and swerve away from the sword. She lowers it with a start, creeping closer to the house as walkers begin to close in around them.

He holds his palm over the left side of his face as he rights himself. When he lowers his hand, she sees the thin slice across the hollow of his cheek, the spots of blood beginning to blossom on his skin.

Ice runs through her veins.

She whispers, "Rick."

But before she can say anything else, he's shouting something at her, as he yanks his axe off his gun belt. He shoves her aside and kills a walker that was precariously nearing her shoulder, and the close call brings back her focus. She turns from him, and once again starts to work with her katana.

"What are you doing, Michonne? We have to _go!_ "

But she doesn't listen to him, and she doesn't stop.

Suddenly, his arm snakes around her waist from behind, and she doesn't have any time to protest or question him before he lifts her up. She lets out a surprised yelp as he turns and carries her up the stairs.

He lets he go when they reach the porch, and she gawks at him for a few moments, her mouth hanging open, before she speaks.

"What the hell was _that_?"

She doesn't wait for his answer, instead starting back towards the stairs. But she can't get to them, because he reaches out and wraps his hand around her wrist.

"No, Michonne."

She glares at the fingers grasping her arm, and then up at him.

"What do you mean, 'no?'" she asks, and she tries to yank forward, but his grip is unwavering.

"I'm not letting you go back down there," he says firmly.

"You're not the one who gets to decide that, Rick," she growls. She lurches towards the stairs again, but she still can't manage to free herself from his hold on her.

"Let me go!"

"No, Michonne!" he shouts, looking at her like she's lost her mind. "What the fuck are you thinkin'? There's too many of them down there, and I know that you know that. You're gonna get yourself killed."

"Let me go!" she yells back, attempting with all her might to pull away from him.

" _No!_ I told you already, I'm not letting you back down there."

"And _I_ told you already," she says, taking a step towards him as she shoots daggers at him with her eyes, "that _you_ don't get to decide that."

"I'm not gonna watch you go down there and die," he tells her, his eyes beginning to shine with tears. "I love you, and I'm not gonna let you do that. I already lost my son today, and I'm not gonna lose you, too."

She stares at him, silent, his words throwing her. In the quiet, the moans of the dead start to rattle her eardrums once more, and she looks back at their gray, decaying bodies.

She _hates_ them. Her blood boils when she sees them.

She drops her sword, and it falls onto the wooden floor with a clank. She takes another step towards Rick, places both hands on his shoulders, and pushes him backwards.

"Let me go."

"No," he answers, without a moment of hesitation.

She curls one of her hands into a fist, and brings it down onto his chest, hitting him.

"Let me _go_ ," she tells him again, clenching her other fist and bringing both down together, punching his body.

" _No_."

"Let me go!" she shouts at him. "Let me go, let me go, let me go, let me go, _let me go_!"

She uses both of her fists to beat on his chest, backing him up against the wall of the house. She keeps hitting him, and commanding him to let her go back down the stairs, until he reaches up and clasps one of her fists in his hand.

" _Michonne_."

She stops as he says her name, her eyes transfixed on the spot where she'd been hitting him moments before. Her breathing is heavy and erratic, brow furrowed and lips turned down into a grimace.

And suddenly, as if every bit of her energy up and left her all in one fell swoop, she collapses into him. She clutches at his shirt with needy fingers, and starts to sob, finding tears she didn't know were left in her body and letting them pour out in torrents.

He wraps his arms around her, and holds her.

* * *

They stay like that for a few minutes, curled around each other, Rick's back pressed against the house's siding. She waits for her tears to cease. Once they do, she takes two deep, steadying breaths and then pulls away from him.

His hands linger on her as she backs up, and she can feel the tips of his fingers squeeze around her before he drops his arms to his side, as she finally moves out of his grasp.

"Michonne," he croaks, and she can hear his voice shake. She eyes the porch stairs as she approaches, and realizes what he must be thinking.

"I'm just getting the katana," she assures him.

As she crouches down to pick it up, she hears his voice from behind her, mumbling out a breathy, "Okay."

She rises with her sword in hand, electing not to put it back in her sheath right now. She got enough walkers in her killing spree that she'll need to wash the blade off. Turning to walk back into the house, she passes Rick, without a glance in his direction. She enters the foyer alone, but after a handful of seconds she hears the clack of his shoes against the ground as he follows her.

She wishes their hug outside had been enough to heal the rift between them. She wishes that things could be fixed effortlessly with the magic of a desperate embrace, but she's lived and experienced enough to know that magic isn't real, and almost everything takes effort. They'll have to talk about what happened. About what they lost, about what he said to her, about what she tried to do outside. About how they're going to manage, moving forward.

She ambles up the stairs and down the hall into the bathroom, where she turns the water on and rinses off her katana in the sink. After it's clean, she grabs one of the towels hanging on the bar on the wall and dries it off, before putting the sword in its sheath and leaving the bathroom to walk to her old room.

He's standing in the hall, leaning up against a wall and waiting. She passes him again, wordlessly.

Once she's in the bedroom, she goes to close the door behind her. But she thinks twice, and leaves the door open a crack. It's her invitation to him, to come in and talk to her. To try and mend whatever's falling apart between them.

She sets her katana on the floor, and then sits down at the foot of the blankets, kicking off her shoes and stretching her legs out straight, folding her hands in her lap. She clenches her eyes shut and bites her bottom lip, concentrating on him as he stands in the hall and trying to will him to come in and sit.

It takes him a few minutes, but Rick comes in.

The door to her first bedroom in this house has always been squeaky, and it used to drive her crazy. Every time she had to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, or fetch something from her room while Judith napped, she would cringe and curse as the door moved on its hinges and sent a loud creak throughout the second floor.

But she welcomes the sound now, and as it rings out and fills her ears, she could almost smile.

He settles down next to her. They're close, but not touching, and she misses the warmth of him. She's not used to being deprived of his touch anymore. The separation between them eats away at her, and she remembers the way his body pressed against hers during their embrace on the porch, how his arms had enveloped her and how his skin had caressed hers. She longs for it so acutely that she considers foregoing their conversation and climbing into his lap instead, kissing him until they both forget about everything apart from each other.

But that won't solve anything, she knows. It will only delay and defer, burying thoughts and words and feelings until they explode out into something that they might not recover from.

They _need_ to talk. In the end, they'll be stronger for it.

Yet, they're silent for minutes on end. She's not sure where to start, and it seems he isn't either. She wrings her hands together and listens to his breathing. She's about to just suck it up and say _something_ , even if it's just his name, to try and jumpstart something, but he beats her to it.

He murmurs, "I'm sorry."

She nods woodenly, staring ahead at the wall instead of looking at him.

"For what?"

She needs him to say it to her. To put it into words, instead of tiptoeing around a vague idea of it.

He hesitates, and she begins to bounce her left knee up and down as her nervousness tics up with each moment of quiet. She steals a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, and finds him facing forward as well, jaw tense.

"I have no idea how it must've felt when you lost Andre and Mike," he finally tells her. "It didn't happen to me, and if it had, I have no idea how I would've reacted. And I have no right to judge the way you coped. You trusted me with your pain and grief, and I took it and used it against you. That's so unfair and disrespectful to you, and _awful_ for me to do to _anyone_ , but especially to you. To someone I care about as much as I do. And I'm so sorry, Michonne. I can't tell you how sorry I am. It physically hurts me that I said what I said."

"I wasn't trying to say that what happened to me was worse that what happened to you," she stresses to him. "I wasn't comparing what we were feeling, or trying to pit our experiences against each other. You have to know I would never do that."

"I do know that. I promise, I do."

"And I'm not even saying you were entirely _wrong_. After I lost everything, I _didn't_ cope very well," she admits, running her palms over the denim covering her thighs. "When I was first at the prison, and before I got there - I wasn't handling it well. I was a damn _mess_ inside, Rick. I don't want that to happen again, and I don't want it to happen to you, either."

She pauses, folding her arms across her stomach.

"But the way that you _said_ it. It was like I had done something wrong. And you seemed _angry_ with me. I didn't get it, and it hurt. It almost felt like you were a different person, and I just…"

She feels his fingers skim her upper arm tentatively as her voice tapers off.

"I know," he says, and she hears him let out a frustrated breath as his fingertips trail down her bicep to her elbow before he pulls away, resting his hand in the empty space between them. "I know. I'm sorry, 'Chonne. I wasn't angry at you. Hell, I don't know if I'm even angry at all. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. It's easy to feel angry, and there's sadness too, but then sometimes I don't think it's even set in that it happened yet. And there's fear, and pain, and it's all kind of just mixed up inside and I can't make sense of it."

"Then tell me that," she urged, turning towards him and grabbing his hand that had been on her arm from its spot on the blanket. She twists their fingers together and crushes his hand in her grasp, her skin stretching over her knuckles and her bones aching from the force she's using to cling to him. "Tell me, and let me help you. And I need you to help me, too. We need each other, Rick. We can't do this by ourselves."

She reaches out with her free hand and takes his chin between her thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up so she can see his face. As he stares back at her, she can still see the sadness and mourning swimming in his eyes. The lost look that glazes over them, like he doesn't know where he is and what he's doing anymore.

She acknowledges that, and accepts it for now. She's sure her eyes look the same. The hurt and grief they carry can't be solved with an embrace, or a conversation.

But when she looks into his blue irises, she sees the softness that she's come to love so much. The peace that she doesn't quite understand, but that makes her feel that even with everything weighing them down right now, they'll find a way to make it.

Somehow, they'll make it.

He takes the hand holding his chin and lifts it to his cheek.

"It can't be like it was with Glenn and Abraham," he whispers. "It has to be different this time."

She nods, knowing he's referencing the way they pulled away from each other after that terrible night.

"It will be," she promises him, and she crawls toward him and settles in his lap, straddling his legs and wrapping her arms around his neck. "We'll do it together."

"Together," he vows.

They kiss.

They kiss, desperately, and she breathes him in. He pulls at the hem of her shirt and she threads her fingers through his hair, and as his mouth plies hers open and their tongues stroke together, she knows nothing except that she needs to be close to him. She needs to feel his heart beat in his chest and hear his voice in her ear and feel the warmth of his blood as it runs through the veins under his skin.

They shed their clothes in haphazard piles around the room, and soon they're laying naked across the blankets on the floor. She lays on her back as he hovers over her, legs wrapped around his waist and nails digging into his back, leaving crescent-shaped indents on his skin. She shuts her eyes, panting, anticipating the sensation of him inside her.

But the feeling doesn't come, even though he's pressing against her, hard and insistent. She opens her eyes after a few moments, to find him still and staring down at her, a troubled look on his face.

"What is it?" she asks, lifting herself onto her elbows.

"I thought you were going to die."

Her stomach drops.

"When you went out there into that herd, I thought you were going to die," he repeats. He grimaces as the words leave his lips, his eyes beginning to shine. "I thought you were trying to get yourself _killed_."

His voice breaks on the last word, a sob wracking his body.

"No," she breathes, moving her hands so they wrap around the back of his neck, and then pulling his face down into the crook of her neck as sadness and guilt wash over her. That's _not_ what she was doing. She was just overwhelmed and frustrated and alone and reckless, and she was desperate for a distraction.

But she realizes what it must have looked like.

"No," she says again, making her voice more firm.

"I can't lose you. I can't lose both of you," he cries, his voice muffled by her skin. "I know we agreed that we could lose each other if we had to, because it wasn't about us, but _shit_ , Michonne. I can't. I can't lose you. _Please_ don't leave me, Michonne."

He lifts his head, and stares at her with anguished eyes, tears streaking down his face.

"Please don't leave me, baby. Please don't leave me."

"I'm not gonna leave you," she swears, and she feels a few of her own tears fall from the corners of her eyes and onto the pillow below her head. "I'm not gonna leave you, baby."

He crashes his lips against hers, and somehow their kisses are even more frantic than they were before. During the brief moments when they separate, she repeats her pledge to him again and again, trying to burn the words into his mind and heart.

She cries out when he enters her, and she clings to him as he moves, keeping her lips against any part of him she can reach and tugging at his hair, whimpering in his ear and breathing against his skin. They reach their peak together, and he lets out a groan as he buries his face into her neck.

"I love you," he moans desperately. "I love you."

"I love you," she vows.

She loves him. More than she'll ever be able to express or comprehend.

Their breathing slows, and he relaxes against her. She keeps her legs wrapped around him and basks in the fact that she can feel his heart pump as his chest beats against hers.

She runs her her fingers through his curls over and over, and presses a kiss onto his head.

"I love you."

She loves him _so much_.

And they'll get through this together.

* * *

 **A/N:** I never write smut ever ever ever, and even though this is super light-core, I think I no joke blushed about fifty times while writing it and almost took it out while I was proofreading. I hope it doesn't suck too much. *ducks and hides*

There's one more short chapter left, and I hope to have it up within the next few days.

See you soon!

xoxo,  
Rebekah


	5. okay

**Author's Note:** This is it, guys! Thank you for reading and reviewing and taking this journey with me. When I first started getting flashes and ideas of this in my head, I never intended to write them down or put them into a story. But I'm glad I did, and I'm glad you all have enjoyed what is basically my version of 8x09 and 8x10. I hope I've done the story and these versions of Rick and Michonne justice in this final chapter.

Before I go, I'd like to give a shoutout to the songs that got me through writing during the times I thought I'd never finish this:  
\- Life and Death, by Michael Giacchino (chapters 1, 2, 3)  
\- Arrival of the Birds (Piano Cover), by David de Miguel (chapters 2, 3, 4)  
\- Roslyn, by Bon Iver and St. Vincent (chapter 4)  
\- Alps, by Novo Amor and Ed Tullett (chapter 5)

They're all absolutely gorgeous songs, and I totally recommend you check them out if you have the time.

Sorry for this novel of an author's note. Again, thank you for your reviews, encouragement, love, and support. I hope you enjoy the last chapter!

* * *

 **chapter five: okay**

She's woken up the next morning by rays of morning sunlight shining in through the window, bright in her eyes and warm on her skin.

She squints, and brings one of her hands up to rub down her face. As she starts to shed the heaviness of sleep from her mind, she registers the feeling of Rick wrapped around her. She turns in his arms to face him. His eyes are still closed, and his breathing is still steady and slow as he continues to sleep. Lifting one of her hands again, she runs a fingertip lightly down the slant of his nose. His face twitches, but he still isn't roused, and she admires him for a few more quiet moments before pressing a kiss to his bare chest and turning back around in his embrace.

The light of the sun washes over her face again. She finds she doesn't resent it like she did the day before.

Her eyes flit closed, and she drifts in and out of a light doze before she feels Rick begin to shift behind her. He presses two kisses onto her shoulder, and she turns again, to her other side. She finds him looking at her, his blue eyes bleary and only open into slits, but he doesn't look as tired as he did yesterday. The dark circles under his eyes are gone, and some of the lines creasing his skin have eased, and she feels something stir inside her.

He leans forward, and places soft kisses to her hairline and each of her cheeks until capturing her lips in a kiss that's longer and more firm. When they separate, he pulls her closer to him as she slides up and nuzzles her face against his, closing her eyes.

"Mornin'," he whispers to her.

"Morning yourself," she whispers back.

They don't say _good morning_ , because the morning isn't good. Not with what they lost only hours ago. And she knows the day won't be good either. Not yet. It might take a long time for the mornings and days to be good again, and they might not even be better, at least for awhile. But she has him, now. They're together.

And she feels something stirring inside her. She can't really identify it, but it's one of the few things in the past two days that doesn't feel bad.

When she pulls her eyelids open again, the thin, red line on his cheek catches her gaze, and holds it hostage as a frown takes over her mouth and regretful sorrow clenches at her heart.

She passes her fingers over the place where she sliced him with her katana, the crusty bumps of the scab that's formed gently scraping at her skin.

When she doesn't speak, he murmurs, "It's okay, Michonne."

She shakes her head, still staring at the mark.

"No, it's not."

"It's not like you meant to do it."

"You could've gotten infected."

As she thinks about it now, she doesn't know how he managed to _not_ get infected, with all the blood and guts that coated the blade of her sword.

He lifts one of his hands and holds it over hers on his cheek, stilling her fingers.

"But I didn't," he tells her.

She finally manages to tear her gaze from his injury, and finds him looking at her with soft eyes. He gives her the slightest smile.

"I didn't get infected, and you didn't die trying to take down that herd. Let's just take our wins, instead of punishing ourselves for the losses we think we deserved."

She's quiet as she lets his words sink into her brain, and she knows he's talking about more than him avoiding infection and her not getting herself killed. He's talking about Carl, too, and Alexandria, and Sasha, and Glenn and Abraham, and Lori, and Andre and Mike, and all the things that have been taken from them.

She nods slowly, and then buries her face in the crook of his neck. They lay there on her pallet of blankets, quiet and intertwined, breathing together. The sun shines in through the window and caresses their skin, and she's glad for it.

After a little while, she kisses the underside of his jaw.

"We should go to The Hilltop. They're probably worried about us. And I'm sure Judy misses us."

"I miss Judy," he says, and she hums in agreement.

"Then let's go see her."

He pulls her body closer to his as she stretches and slides her toes along his shin, before releasing her. He begins to get up, but she wraps her hand around his upper arm before he can stand. He pauses and looks down at her in question.

"We'll have to tell Enid," she says solemnly. "And Maggie. Carol, when we see her. Aaron and Morgan."

He nods once, and reaches out to tuck a few of her locs behind her ear.

"We will. We'll tell them together," he promises.

 _Together._

She leans up and kisses him once more, and then they rise, going to their room and showering quickly before pulling on fresh clothes. They grab backpacks and throw in some spare shirts and underwear, before entering the kitchen and packing up all the food they have left, and then make a loop around the house and take everything they see that could be useful. Before they walk out the door, she runs into the dining room and grabs the wire cat he got her at the junkyard from its place on the china cabinet.

When she rejoins him, he looks at metal sculpture she's holding and sends her a sideways glance.

"Hey, I lost the last one at the prison," she defends. "I'm not losing her, too. Plus, I like this one more than that one."

"More that the last one?" he questions, raising his eyebrows. "The colorful one is more you. This one's a lot...duller."

She shrugs.

"Yeah, but I'm kinda fond of the person who gave me this one."

She swears she almost sees the ghost of a real smile pass over his face for a second. And something stirs inside her.

They start towards the door again, but he stops suddenly, mumbling _shit_ under his breath as he turns and jogs up the stairs.

When he comes back down, he's holding the framed picture of Carl and Judith he keeps on their dresser in one hand, and Carl's hat in the other.

She pauses, and then takes a deep breath as she steps forward, trailing her fingers over the brim of the hat.

Her eyes lock with Rick's, and then they turn to leave once again.

They sneak out through the back door, because they've had enough of the walkers gathered at the foot of the porch, but when they round the corner of the house they find the walkers gone, only a couple of stragglers milling about in the front yard. She can hear moans off in the distance. Something must've caught their attention overnight.

One corner of her mouth lifts briefly as she stares at the empty street.

They stop at Carl's and Judith's spot before continuing on. She stands back as he makes his way to Carl's grave, watching him as he kneels down and bows his head as he closes his eyes. A few minutes pass before he opens them again, lifting his head back up. After he does, he turns to look at her, and extends his arm.

"Come 'ere," he beckons her.

Her heart skips a beat as that same something continues to stir and bubble inside her, and she walks toward him, kneeling next to him, in front of the cross he placed at the head of Carl's grave. Their shoulders brush against each other.

They don't speak right away, but eventually Rick whispers into the still air between them.

"He's yours, too. You know that, right?"

She turns to look at him, and finds him staring back at her with a love so severe that her eyes well with tears.

She _does_ know that, deep in her heart. Carl had referred to himself as her kid on more than one occasion. And she and Rick had never spoken about it, but she still knew that he thought of Carl and Judith as _their_ kids. She saw it in his eyes every time he watched her interact with them.

But to hear him _say_ it, so plainly and so openly. It fills her with such an overwhelming joy that she can barely breathe. And it means _so much_ to her. It means everything to her.

"He's been yours for a long time," he continues. "Hell, he's probably been yours since the day we went to King County and you two came back with that crazy cat. And he looked up at me and told me you were one of us."

She smiles, and it squeezes the tears from the corners of her eyes. He touches her face, and catches and stops their path with his fingers.

"I know," she says as she nods, her voice unsteady. "I know."

"You weren't just his friend, 'Chonne," he tells her. "You're more than his friend. You're his _mom_. And you're Judith's mom. She's yours, too."

She nods again, but she can't find her voice this time. Overcome, she leans into his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around her.

"They're ours," he murmurs. "Both of them are ours, and they always will be. No matter what."

She scoots closer to him, and inhales deeply as her heart drowns in love for Rick and their children.

 _They're ours._

And something inside her stirs and stirs.

Rick grabs the sheriff's hat from where he placed it on the ground beside him, and hangs it off of the top point of the wooden cross.

"You're not gonna take it with us?" she questions.

He shakes his head.

"I don't think so. I'm gonna...I think I'll leave it here. It's his, you know? It's still his. It'll always be his."

She lifts her hand, and touches the soft felt of the hat again.

"And then, people will know this is him," Rick tells her. "Whenever anyone walks by here, they'll know it's Carl. And it'll make them think of him. Remember him. He deserves people's memories."

"He does," she agrees, nodding once.

"Do you think it's a good idea?"

She turns her head and finds Rick looking at her, slight insecurity etched in his features. She places her hand on his thigh, and squeezes.

"Yeah, I do. I like it a lot."

He grips her forearm for a moment, and then switches his gaze back to the cross. He closes his eyes as he inhales, long and careful, before opening them again and exhaling as he wraps his fingers over one of the branches of the cross. She hears the whooshing sound of air as it rushes between his lips.

"I love you," he says softly, speaking to their son. "I love you with everything I am. We both do. And we'll love you forever. I miss you already, _so much_. I've missed you every moment since you left, and I'll miss you every second for the rest of my life. Everything I've ever done, I've done for you, and that won't change. Everything I do in the future, I'll do for you. I'll win this war, and raise Judith, and be with Michonne, and take care of the rest of our family. And we have to go now, but we'll be back. We'll build Alexandria back up, make it home again. We'll always be here with you. And even...even if it ends up we can't fix it, we'll always come back to you, and be with you. We'll bring Judy with us, and Enid, and whoever else wants to come. I promise you, we'll always come back, no matter what. I promise you."

He leans down, and kisses the top of Carl's hat.

"I love you," he breathes.

She feels herself crying at Rick's speech, and she wipes at her eyes.

He sits upright again, and they both take awhile to sit there with Carl, minds playing back all their memories of him. Memories that they'll hold onto for the rest of their lives, with everything they are. With every inch of their souls.

When she hears Rick begin to move, she speaks.

"Can I have a moment with him?"

"Of course," he says, hugging her into his side and pressing his lips against her hair before getting up, and she watches him walk to the edge of the grass. When he stops, she turns back around, and slides the tip of her forefinger down the length of the center of the cross, a small, bittersweet smile gracing her face.

"Hey, buddy," she whispers, a stray tear falling down her cheek.

She doesn't know what she wants to say, exactly.

She wants to tell Carl how much she loves him, and how much she misses him, just as Rick did. She wants to tell him that he'll always be in her heart, that she thinks of him always. How she hopes he's happy, and that every speck of pain and suffering he ever suffered has healed so completely that he can't even remember what it used to feel like. That she hopes he's been reunited with everyone he's ever lost, that he's hanging out with Glenn and Sophia and Noah and Beth, catching up with Sasha and Hershel and Abraham and Tyreese and all the other people that aren't here on Earth anymore. She hopes he's with his mother, that he's spending all the time with her he should've had, that the hole in his heart that formed when she died is gone, not a trace of it left behind.

She hopes he's met Andre, that they're friends and brothers now. She wants to ask him to take care of her baby. She wants to tell him that she already knows he is.

But words are evading her, and she's afraid she won't be able to convey everything she feels. That she won't be able to create something beautiful like Rick did.

She wants to tell him and she and his dad are together. They're heartbroken, and they miss him _so much_ that it physically aches, but they're _together_. That they'll be here for each other, and help each other, and find a way to sort through their pain side by side. They'll put each other back together again, piece by piece.

She wants to tell him that it will take awhile to stop hurting, and crying, and grieving. It might take a _long time_ , but they won't give up. They'll keep going, keep fighting to mend their hearts, and someday, they'll be able to wake up and smile.

She can't manage to say it, though. Her throat is caught, and it makes her hesitate and stop and start. She begins to grow frustrated, but then Rick's words pop into her head. He told Carl that they'd come back - that they'll _always_ come back to him - and he's right.

She realizes that she doesn't have to say it all today. They have to leave right now, but they'll be here again. She can speak to Carl in bits, tell him something new every time she sees him. She can take her time, and consider her every word so she can be sure it means everything she wants it to.

She guess that he already knows it all, anyways. That he can see what she's thinking and feeling, now. But she still needs to say it herself. To tell him out loud.

So for today, she leaves him with a simple thought, but maybe the most important one she has. The one she wants Carl to be sure of above everything else.

"We're going to be okay," she whispers to him, digging her fingers into the still-lose dirt below her and turning her face up towards the sky. "I promise you, we're going to be okay."

The sun washes over her skin, and a warm, pleasant breeze blows blows in the softest way, swathing her body. Something stirs inside her, and she still can't pinpoint exactly what it is. But she knows that it's good, and not bad. And she thinks it might be the first strings of a step in the right direction gently twining together in her stomach, the starting line of the journey towards hope beginning to grow.

She bends and presses her lips to the top of Carl's hat in a kiss, in the same spot where Rick did the same, and murmurs her love to him twice more.

After taking a moment to gather herself, she stands and walks in slow steps over to Rick. As she stops in front of him, he strokes her cheek, and she brushes her lips against his palm before he drops his arm back to his side.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Yeah," she tells him. "I am."

He reaches out, and holds her hand.

* * *

 **A/N:** And they all lived happily ever after forever and ever the end.

The line, "We're going to be okay. I promise you, we're going to be okay," is from This Is Us 2x15. It's an incredible show, and you should watch it if you aren't already.

I'm sick, so reviews would make me happy.

Thanks for everything, my dears! Hope to show up with something new soon.

xoxo,  
Rebekah


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